


please understand it has to be this way

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom, Empires (Band), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Music, Recovery, Smoking, Touring, dealing with psychiatric issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Mikey joins Empires.docx
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	please understand it has to be this way

  


There's a lot of screaming when the news comes out that MCR broke up months ago, a lot of, "Why didn't you ever fucking tell me!?" and "What the fuck is wrong with you!?" and "How am I ever supposed to trust you now!?" Because cheating on his wife and being a total fucking asshole is nothing next to not saying, by the way, my band broke up before you and I ever met and I haven't been Mikey Fuckin Way From My Chem for a long time.

Pete's call comes at exactly the right time, when Mikey is outside chain smoking menthols, rubbing his face where she slapped him, and trying to calm down. He's not a guy who hits people. He doesn't want to be. But he thinks he might become that guy if they keep fighting like this.

And then there's Pete and his practically stream-of-consciousness conversation. What Mikey gets out of it is that Pete knows a guy who has a band that needs a bassist pretty desperately, because they're booked on a tour in a little over a week, but are going to have to cancel because they can't find a bass player.

"No money," Pete says cheerfully, "and they tour in a van and there are all kinds of fucking rules and Tom basically takes pictures of everyone all the time, even when you're jerking off, and --"

"Tom... Conrad?" Mikey squints into the setting sun. "I know him, right?"

"Yeah, you do. He was in TAI? And now his band is Empires, and --"

"I'll do it. Tell me where to go."

"Are you sure? Dude!"

No one's been this happy to talk to Mikey for a long time. It doesn't exactly feel _good_ , but it breaks through the fog a little. Pete's voice always breaks through whatever fog Mikey's wandering around in. Every time.

*

Tom meets Mikey at the airport. He looks so familiar, but Mikey can't _really_ place him. It's so weird, like Mikey dreamed about him or something. Tom looks at him evenly, and Mikey can't figure out what that means. No one at Midway is screaming about Mikey or even taking his picture, but he's wearing a jacket and a beanie and is slouched down.

No one ever really recognizes him without Gerard, anyway.

Tom trades him a cup of coffee for his suitcase and bass and it's exactly how Mikey takes it. He looks up in surprise.

"Pete," says Tom briefly, and nods for Mikey to follow him.

Mikey wonders if the silence is going to be this heavy the whole time he works with Tom's band -- but then the shoe drops. They're in the car, staring at traffic, Tom's fingers drumming on the steering wheel, Mikey staring out the passenger-side window. 

Tom says, "I don't know if Pete told you the rules? But... we don't do drugs in this band, nothing except a little weed. We're not alcoholics and we stop each other if anyone's getting stupid drunk. And we don't fuck fans."

Mikey swallows hard. "I can follow those rules. I won't fuck up your band."

"I don't care how much Pete loves you or how many gold records you have. You fuck up and you're out." Tom's mouth twists. "We're good at kicking people out now, even when it means shooting ourselves in the foot."

Mikey looks away from him, out the window at the traffic. "I won't fuck up," he repeats. 

He can feel Tom staring at him, but Tom just says, "Pete says you need to get back on your meds. If you need someone to help with that or anything, Max is good at that kind of thing. If you don't break the rules, you're in the band. If you're in the band, we take care of each other."

Mikey doesn't believe him, but he doesn't say so. It's not his band. Tom's not his friend. There's no room for Mikey's opinions in this car.

It's actually kind of a relief.

*

Mikey had meant to google Tom's band, listen to their music, find out who they all were, but he hadn't done it. Instead, he'd sat in the airport and read through break-up texts. He couldn't fight, couldn't think of anything to say; he just texted back, "Keep the ring," and turned off his phone.  
The blond guy with the beard is walking around the backyard in circles, muttering to himself. The black-haired guy with the beard has to be the drummer because he's sitting still, except for his hands, which are drumming on his legs. Tattooed legs. 

Mikey figures that the guy who takes care of things, Max, is going to be a big guy, a guy like Worm or Marcus or maybe even Dirty. Someone tall and wide and comforting, who can get things done and make his voice heard. Instead, he's short and a little chubby, with long, curly hair, smudged glasses, and a really big smile. Mikey blinks at him a couple of times while they shake hands. 

"You're Max?" he says, when the guy pauses to take a breath.

"Yeah," the guy replies patiently. "Max Steger. I do lead guitar, all the production work. The studio's in the basement. You wanna come down, or you wanna hang out here with Mike and Sean and smoke?"

"Smoke?"

"They're smoking weed. I smoke cigarettes." He pats the front pockets of his jeans, then the back pockets, then the front pocket of his plaid shirt. "Ah -- here. My mom doesn't let us smoke inside."

"Your mom?"

"Yeah..." Max squints at him. "Are you, like... okay?" Max makes it sound like he's not actually asking Mikey if Mikey is high on something completely universe-altering, but he clearly is.

"Yeah, it's just a lot to take in," Mikey finally says. "Sorry. This was kind of last minute and I'm shitty at research. You want to, like, take me inside and help me learn the songs?"

It's the right thing to say. Max beams. "We take the music really serious," he says. "I know we kind of look like slackers, but it's the thing we take serious. You know?"

"Totally," says Mikey, nodding. And then, in a moment that feels somehow like a great, swooping, stomach-churning reinvention, Mikey says, "I take it really serious too. There's nothing in my life I take more seriously than music."

*

Max reminds Mikey so much of Ray, except Mikey doesn't feel like his kid brother. Mikey doesn't feel like he's letting down the whole band, the whole world, when he can't get something right on the first try. Max is really patient, and goes really slowly. They focus on the bassline for a song Max says is about him, and it's... weird. It's weird when Max sings it under his breath and it's a song about, like, fucking.

But Tom had said they don't fuck fans, not that they don't fuck each other.

When Mikey fucks it up the first time, the second time, the third time, Max slows them down, goes bar by bar, doesn't even lose his patience. Never tells Mikey he's disappointed. Even says, "You'll get it. Or we'll change it so it's something you can play."

"You shouldn't have to change your songs because I'm a shitty bassist."

Max frowns at him for the first time. "You're not a shitty bassist. Your brain's just somewhere else. You think I can't tell when someone's fucked up?"

"I'm not on anything."

"I meant..." Max gestures to his own head. "Shit's happening, right? You're distracted. It's your first day, you've never heard our music before, you didn't write this song."

"I didn't write any of my band's songs either."

"Well, that's bullshit." Max bites his lip. "Would tabs help? You can practice with them?"

"You're not going to tell me a real musician reads music?"

"A real musician plays music and loves music. Everything else is bullshit."

Mikey takes a deep breath through his nose. "Tom says you're the one who handles shit."

"Yeah, I guess. I just like shit to be organized."

"I need a psychiatrist out here. And tabs would be great."

"No problem. Either of those things."

"I told Tom and I'll tell you -- I'm not going to fuck up your band."

"Obviously." Max sits back and picks his guitar up instead of his bass. "Let me play you one of our songs. Just listen. Get a feel for our vibe."

Mikey nods, hands spread out over the strings of his bass, and shuts his eyes as Max starts to play.

*

Max's mom is a nice lady and his dad is a nice guy. They drink a lot of beer in a way that Mikey associates with the Midwest, like it's water or milk. Max doesn't drink and no one comments on it, so Mikey doesn't drink either, just takes the Diet Coke Max offers him. 

The blond guy with the beard is Sean, the singer, and he flirts with Max's mom and dad, and with Mike, and with Tom. When he flirts with Mikey, Mikey decides it's just how he communicates. Maybe he doesn't even _know_ he's flirting, like Patrick. 

The dinner table practically groans under the amount of food that's on it -- _this_ Mikey understands how to do. A little bit of everything and a lot of enthusiastic praise.

After dinner, everyone sits around the living room and listens to Sean and Tom play guitar together. Mikey tries not to yawn, tries to keep his eyes open. Mrs. Steger touches his shoulder, though, and says, "Come on, sweetie, I'll take you up to your room."

"Oh, no, I'm -- I mean, I can stay at a hotel."

"Don't be ridiculous. Max's band always stays here."

Mikey thought it was Tom's band, but he keeps his mouth shut and staggers after Mrs. Steger, up the stairs, stepping carefully over the fluffy dog. The guest room he's in is at the end of the hall and doesn't have an attached bathroom or anything. He thinks about brushing his teeth. Plugging in his phone. Turning _on_ his phone. Instead, he just falls onto the twin bed, kicks off his sneakers, and curls up. He tries to put himself to sleep thinking of the basslines to "Hello Lover" but can't get "Skylines and Turnstiles" out of his head.

He knows he's going to have nightmares. He falls asleep anyway.

*

They're in Chicago for a week before tour starts. Mikey's fingertips bleed like they haven't since he came back to the band -- to My Chem -- after -- after. Fuck.

He blocks out the spots in his brain that hurt, and doesn't press on them. Doesn't think about things that knock into them. He goes to the psychiatrist Max finds for him, explains flatly what his diagnosis is, why he went off his meds, what he needs, and gives her the phone number for his California shrink, waits while she calls. It takes almost two hours. Her waiting room is supposed to be warm, he thinks, but it's sterile. It looks like every psychiatrist's waiting room he's ever been in. And he's been in a lot of them.

She writes him prescriptions for slightly altered doses, instructions for how to titrate up while he's on tour, and gives him a separate piece of paper with her cell phone number and a list of times when he _must_ call her. If he wants to hurt himself. If he sees any rash on his skin. If he gets a fever he can't explain that goes above one hundred degrees.

If he wants to die.

"I always want to die," he says to her. 

"Always?"

"For the last few months."

"But do you want to kill yourself?"

He has to think about that. "No, I just want to die."

"Then change that bullet point. If you want to kill yourself, really want to, you call me."

He nods, looks down at the prescriptions again. "None of these are for an anti-anxiety thing."

"I'm not giving you one. You're not having panic attacks. All klonopin will do is make you numb."

"I want to be numb."

"I can't support that decision medically," she says gently, "but I know some therapists who do phone work."

He takes their numbers and takes a cab back to the Stegers' house, and sleeps through two hours of band practice on the couch in the studio. When he wakes up, there are four pill bottles and a note in Mrs. Steger's Catholic school handwriting. It looks painfully like his mother's. It says, "Hope you don't mind! I was doing a CVS run anyway!" There's also a bottle of water, and a sheaf of papers on the table. No receipt, so Mikey isn't sure how he's supposed to pay her back. He'll need to remember to ask Max.

They're night meds, so Mikey leaves them there, and makes his way to where Max is adjusting levels while Sean wails into the mic.

What he really wants is cocaine. And vodka. A cocaine and vodka smoothie.

Instead, he picks up his bass and joins them. Max's tabs are easy to read. Mikey's fingers only fumble a little, and no one makes a disappointed face at him. Mike comes down with a sandwich and a bottle of beer, and his drums are so easy to follow. Mikey can match every beat to the bass tabs.

*

The more they practice, the easier Mikey's fingers get on the strings, the more his calluses build, and the less the bass thrums through him with a rhythm of _You're not good enough._

When Max grins at him during a song, Mikey knows he's good enough. Max wouldn't smile if Mikey wasn't good enough.

Mikey knows it's stupid to glow under the attention, stupid to think... but Max's smiles are really fucking dangerous.

*

These guys fool around and have _fun_ , but Max wasn't joking when he said they take music seriously. Mikey feels like he's reinventing himself when he lets himself feel their intensity. He gets lost in it, and the last day they practice before tour starts, he's surprised to realize he's jealous of how Max gets to put his head on Sean's chest and listen to Sean sing from his lungs.

The first show they do is a hometown Chicago show, but they still have to pack up the van and the trailer. They're going to play, sleep at the Stegers', and then take off for Wisconsin. They're doing a Midwest and Southwest tour, not going near the coasts. Mikey is ashamed that it's a relief. He's such an _asshole_. At least he knows it.

The van _sucks_ , and it's a kind of suck Mikey remembers and didn't think he missed. It has no heat and no a/c. It kind of smells and there won't be any privacy and Mikey is going to have to take his turn driving. Since Mikey and Max are the only two who don't drink, they're going to be taking the night shifts, which... is fair. But sucks.

Mikey is helping Mike drag the drums out to load into the trailer when he overhears Tom, and realizes Tom is talking about him. Mikey rounds the trailer and van and Tom doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed or blush or anything.

"Say hi to Pete," he says, and holds the phone out.

"Yo, boo," says Mikey, and Tom takes the phone back.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah," says Tom slowly. "You too, man. Talk to you tomorrow. Yeah. Tell Bx dinosaurs should all be orange." Tom laughs as he hangs up.

"You report on me to Pete?" asks Mikey. He's not sure how he feels about this.

"Every fucking day," says Tom. He pulls his hair back into a ponytail. "You thought he was going to send you out here and not check in on you?"

"I -- yeah."

"Dumb," says Tom, but kind of affectionately, and then he reaches out and squeezes Mikey's shoulder. "You needed us as much as we needed you, Way. Pete's good at noticing stuff like that."

Mikey has to think about that, but finally he nods. "Okay. What are you telling him?"

"So far you're doing good. Max is careful about your meds, Sean likes how you play, you're better at following what Mike does than at actually playing the song as it's written, which is cool."

"It's a lot easier to follow Mike than read the tabs. I'm just lazy."

"You're not lazy, dude. No one gets to be in Max's band if they're lazy. If he thinks they're not taking his music seriously."

Mikey looks around; they're alone. "I thought it was your band?"

"It's _my_ band, but it's Max's _band_. You know?"

"I don't get it." Mikey shakes his head.

"You will, dude." Tom tucks away his phone. "When I call Pete tomorrow, I'll come get you to say hi again, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that." Mikey stands still while Tom squeezes his shoulder again, and leans against the van to take deep breaths. He pulls out his new phone -- new plan, new number, even a new model of phone -- and texts Pete.

_I love you too_ , he types in carefully, and presses send before he can think better of it. No one needs his love. It's bad for people. It's bad for _him_. But he loves Pete anyway, because he doesn't love anyone enough to protect them from himself. 

*

This show is worse than any other show Mikey has ever played in his life. He wears a hat pulled all the way down over his eyes, keeps his back to the audience -- a hundred kids from Chicago who all love Empires and know every word to every song -- and watches Mike the whole time. He can't remember the last time he was on a stage this small, in a venue this tiny, without booze, drugs, or at least a fucking ativan. Or his _brother_.

He keeps it together and plays the songs, following Mike's rhythm, but he can't go back on stage for the encore. He's pretty sure the rest of the band goes back out with guitars and Mike takes a shaker, but Mikey has to find an exit and ends up behind the venue, near a dumpster, leaning against the wall. He throws up and shakes and throws up some more, eyes leaking frustrated tears.

Stage fright isn't something Max will tolerate in his band, Mikey knows. Maybe they'll call one of their old friends who've played bass for them before and bring them back.

Mikey hasn't actually had stage fright this bad in _years_. All the Killjoys stuff... he had been _fine_. He had been fine and he had felt good and everything had been going _right_. And now...

When someone rubs his back, Mikey jerks and stands up straight. 

"Just me," says Max, holding out a water bottle. "I figured you wouldn't want to see Tom and have to deal with talking to Pete."

"Don't want to talk to anyone," says Mikey. But he takes the water bottle. Swish and spit, swish and spit, sip. He remembers the drill. Last time he did this, it was with cheap tequila; the sense memory of it almost knocks him over.

"Sure." Max leans against the wall -- not near where Mikey had puked -- and lights a cigarette. Two cigarettes, Mikey realizes, because Max is holding one out to him.

Mikey takes it. Max smokes hardcore cigarettes that make Mikey's chest feel like it's caving in. It's nice. They smoke together quietly for a while.

"Why didn't you tell us you have stage fright?" asks Max, lighting two more cigarettes.

"I thought I was over it." Mikey takes the cigarette. The filter isn't even damp, like Max is some kind of professional cigarette lighter.

"You're definitely not over it."

"Well, I fucking know that now." Mikey takes a long drag and looks away from Max. "I told you I wouldn't fuck up your band and then I did."

"Do you know how much those kids love when Sean does acoustic songs? You didn't fuck up anything." 

Mikey can _hear_ Max smoking; the way his lips let go of the paper of the filter, the indrawn breaths, the sighs of exhale. And he hears when Max clears his throat.

"What makes it better?"

"Getting so fucking drunk I can't see the crowd," says Mikey dully. "You thought I was an alcoholic because it's fun or something?"

"Can't do that, I guess, so we need to figure out something else." Max takes an extra-long drag on his cigarette, then flicks the butt away while he exhales. Mikey watches the orange light arc across to the other dumpster, then looks down at his own.

"You're not kicking me off the tour?"

"You're still in the band. We'll just... deal with it. Tom has stage fright too."

"Tom does _not_ have stage fright. Come on."

"Really bad. He has, like, social anxiety? He doesn't like to talk to strangers, or the fans. It was, like, the best thing ever when we found Mike, because he doesn't mind being up at the merch table to run the credit card machine."

"Sean can't run the credit card machine?"

Max laughs. "No fucking way. You saw him try to work the ATM this afternoon."

Okay, yeah, that was kind of hilarious, and had taken almost fifteen minutes to get Sean forty bucks.

"Anyway, we figured it out for Tom and we'll figure it out for you. You did okay looking at Mike, right? Maybe we'll put you on the other side so you're behind Tom, and then you can look at Mike and look at me too. That's what Tom does when he starts to freak out a little. He turns and plays to me. That way, he's not playing for the crowd, he's --"

"-- playing for you. Just for you," says Mikey. He takes his last drag of the cigarette; his lungs are burning and feel like they're covered in smoke. It's nice. Comforting. Reminds him of nights spent at Jersey and Manhattan clubs when he didn't have to do or say anything; he could just be there and people knew who he was and thought he was cool. 

"We'll try it tomorrow night and see if it works."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then we'll figure out something else. This counts as panic, right? Can you play through your drugs? I mean the brain drugs, not another drug."

"Your band doesn't do drugs, I know. I wouldn't."

"But can you play through the anti-anxiety stuff?" asks Max patiently, sounding exactly like he did when he was asking Mikey if he could work off the tabs. Not at all like it puts him out or makes him annoyed or like Mikey needs to just get his shit together instead of getting it all over Max's band.

"I guess. It's been a while. Probably. They don't make me _fuzzy_ , just..."

"So we'll call the psychiatrist if you can't get through the show and explain you're having panic attacks. I'll vouch if she doesn't believe you. This definitely counts."

"Do you think anyone out there knew it was me?"

"I don't know if our fans really have a crossover with My Chemical Romance? Like, I really don't know."

"I guess we'll find out on Tumblr or whatever tomorrow."

"Do you care?"

"I don't want people coming to see your band just to gawk at me instead of to listen to your music."

Max grins at him. "We wouldn't mind the door money."

Mikey wants to smile back but can't figure out how to, so he just flattens his lips and rolls his eyes and hopes Max gets it. And he must, because he laughs a little and claps Mikey on the shoulder. 

"Come on," he says, "no stage fright during load out. Sean will keep the fans distracted."

*

The next show is _minutely_ better, because Max does what he'd promised and puts Mikey behind Tom, so he can see Max and Mike, and is mostly hidden behind Sean. He wears a black beanie and a long-sleeved shirt, even though it's too warm in the venue and he sweats. He wears black jeans and black sneakers and keeps his head down, and it's Milwaukee -- they don't get an encore.

Mikey makes a Millay-wah-kay joke and no one laughs. He can't tell if that's when he's supposed to say, "Fuck, you guys, have you never seen _Wayne's World_ for real?" or just shrug it off. 

He ends up shrugging it off, because they're not his band. He doesn't know if he can joke with them about that stuff yet, even though _they_ joke all the time. It's a weird space to be in. He's a temp, like a tech or a roadie, has to be friendly even though they're not really _friends_.

Well, maybe Max is his friend.

Mikey can't fucking _tell_.

That night, when he drives, he finds Type O Negative on his iPod. If he still posted to Twitter, he would post something, like, In Memory Of Peter Steele And His One Line In Wayne's World, but he doesn't use Twitter anymore, and the internet is full of crazy people who'd use that to figure out that he had been in Milwaukee tonight anyway. 

Max has never heard "Black No. 1" before, and when the song gets to the chorus, Mikey glances at him. "It's okay," he says. "You can laugh, dude."

"Is it a joke?"

"Kind of?"

"How can it only be kind of a joke?"

"Well, listen to it. The music is fucking impeccable. His voice. It's just that the song is about how fucking bizarre life is. How weird people are. How seriously people take themselves. A lot of their songs are like that. They're, um..." He takes the exit the GPS tells him to, turning off the highway into Madison and finally finds the word. "They're about shit people take seriously, but they're irreverent."

Max nods, says, "You've heard of Nirvana?"

"Uh, yeah. Who hasn't heard of Nirvana?"

"I don't know, man, it's a twenty-year-old band, a lot of people."

"You're a big fan, right? You have a Nirvana tattoo."

"Yeah, I think they changed the entire face of music."

"We should listen to them when we're on a long drive. A Nirvana collection as curated by Max Steger. I'll take notes." Mikey grins at him, an easy curling of his lips, and Max grins back, that wide grin he has that goes from ear to ear.

Mikey is pretty sure they're friends.

*

When Mikey's doses increase, he feels like his head is going to explode. The pressure in his ears is fucking intense. He wants to talk to someone about it, wants to curl up and be petted. Last time his doses changed -- changed for real, not when he stopped going to the doctor and went off his meds -- Alicia had stayed home for a few days and Mikey stayed in bed and they'd watched all three seasons of _Storm Chasers_. The time before that had been on tour, and even though Gerard had disapproved, he'd drawn comics for Mikey, and Frank had curled up with him, and Ray had played songs no one else would ever get to hear.

It's easy to forget that he's not just a guy in a garage band -- a basement band -- until something like this happens. Then he remembers: you're Mikey Way, you're all alone, this isn't your band, and you don't belong here with these people.

He has his old phone with him. He could plug it in and turn it on and listen to his messages. He could make a bet with himself how many messages are nasty ones -- half breaking up with him and half begging him to come back -- and how many messages are from lawyers. Papers, alimony, division of assets. He knows the words. He never thought they would apply to him. He touches his wrist, where he has the big sweatband. Forever.

The phone can stay where it is, buried at the bottom of his bag. Only seven people have the number of the new phone and Mikey's new email address -- Pete, his mom, Max and Tom and Sean and Mike. And Gabe, apparently, who's been sending him pictures of his dogs. Pete's been texting him pictures of candy.

Gerard probably has the number and the email, since Mom has it, but he's not getting in touch, so Mikey's going to pretend he doesn't have it. Lyn is _really_ mad, hung up on him the one time he called their landline, said no the couple of times he'd asked Gerard to let him say hi to Bandit. Gerard pretended that nothing was happening, mostly. They'd gotten together right before the announcement went out, and Gerard had talked about comics the whole time. Mikey hadn't even gotten a word in edgewise the whole afternoon, had just followed Gerard around, listening and holding his coffee.

Mikey isn't sure what to do with the internet when he's not following shit on Twitter, keeping up with wrestling bulletin boards, and going through his email. He's not even tempted to look at Tumblr or the MCR communities or check his old email address. 

He drives a lot. He likes it, and he can just listen to music and stare at the road and get them where they're going. It's something he never fucks up.

He eavesdrops, too. The other guys treat him like he's part of the band, like he already knows all their secrets. Max lets him listen when he fights with some girl on the phone. Her name is Danielle and she's super concerned about Tom -- maybe she thinks Max and Tom are sleeping together? Mikey can't imagine that. Max isn't like him; Max wouldn't cheat. He doesn't cheat _at all_ ; he doesn't speed and he doesn't cheat at poker and he doesn't even cheat when he plays Solitaire. Max's girlfriend should trust him more.

Sean's girlfriend keeps calling to say, "Maybe I'll come out and meet up with you in Iowa," or Minneapolis or St. Louis, and Tom always shakes his head. 

"We don't really have room in the van for that these days, not with all the extra merch," Tom says. "Come on, Sean."

The "extra merch" is a Tupperware full of 1-inch logo buttons a fan made. Tom uses it as a pillow sometimes, and Max uses it as a hard surface to write music on.

Mikey asks Mike about it in an undertone. He's just like, "Dude, it's not really that much extra merch, is it?" while they're setting up the drums on some college campus in Iowa.

"Extra merch is extra merch," Mike says. He grins at Mikey a little slyly and then says, "Hand me that drum key," and the conversation is over. 

Mikey is, like, ninety percent sure that means they really hate Sean's girlfriend but don't want to say so. Or Tom hates her, and where Tom goes...

Mikey borrows Sean's computer to look at the internet. A Google search for "Sean Van Vleet girlfriend" actually brings up a lot of stuff about Tom; Mikey clicks over to Sean's Twitter and finds his girlfriend's Twitter. He's still got the internet stalking capability that made him a menace on MySpace in 2002.

Well, kind of.

He's totally right that they don't like her. They can't like her, because she calls Empires "Sean's band." There's even a reference to "Sean's songs"; Mikey immediately doesn't like her either.

He wonders about Max's girlfriend's Twitter, but doesn't want to ask, just clears his browser history and hands the computer back to Sean. Once Sean is busily writing on it again, Mikey realizes he could have, like, looked at anything. Looked at what people are saying on Tumblr about Empires shows.

Probably if anyone had actually realized it was Mikey on stage with Empires, Gerard _would_ have texted or emailed.

Mikey lies back with his head on Mike's ankle and pulls out his phone to look through Pete's Instagram. He shouldn't even be doing that. He should be practicing so they can play more than ten songs at a show. But there's something about all the pictures of Pete grinning, of Meagan, of Patrick, of... everything... there's something about Pete's Instagram that makes Mikey feel better. Like there's a future for him somewhere, even if it's not a future he can, like, picture or imagine or dream about.

There's _something_. It's there. Mikey knows it.

Or maybe the brain meds are kicking back in.

*

Stage fright feels like death, but Mikey pushes through it. Max's smiles help. Max takes off his glasses during shows, so Mikey knows he's just a big blur to him, but it doesn't matter. Max loves the music, loves playing it, loves the songs, and seems _glad_ that Mikey is there too. And that's enough to get Mikey through. That and hiding behind Tom.

It's a ten-day tour and then they're back in Chicago. It's an exhausting drive from St. Louis, everyone kind of falling asleep, but Mikey loves it. The way the double yellow lines on the road get into his head, Max singing under his breath in the passenger seat. Tom is on the phone with his girlfriend, Max's sister, talking in a low voice. The humming of everything mixing together keeps Mikey awake and alert. And the show had been _good_.

Of course the last show of the tour had felt good.

There's another tour in a week, a longer one. It loops down into the south and then out to the southwest. Arizona. New Mexico. It's freezing fucking cold in Chicago; Mikey is looking forward to being in the sun again. Maybe someone will go hiking with him so he can walk until he can't feel his feet.

Mikey spends the first few days off sleeping all day and playing bass all night and eating Mrs. Steger's cooking and watching Mr. Steger play beer pong with Tom and Sean, listening to Sean talk about his job (pouring coffee or tending bar, Mikey can't tell) and his girlfriend (who even Mr. Steger doesn't like). 

Then they ramp up band practice for real. Mikey's pretty sure they're comfortable with him now, even though no one actually says it, because they go off on tangents in every single song, improvising into covers of Tom Petty and Fleetwood Mac. Mikey follows Mike's rhythm, plays through even when he doesn't know the songs at all. 

The day before they do another Chicago show, Mikey cocks his head in the middle of one of the new songs -- that's what they call them, new songs, even though they wrote them all, like, last year or something -- and goes right into "New Dawn Fades." Sean stops singing, but Mike follows him with the drums, saying, "Joy Division, fuck yeah!" Tom listens for a couple of seconds and then picks it up, and Max, who Mikey is positive has never heard a Joy Division song in his life, just follows along like he's been listening to _Unknown Pleasures_ since the womb.

It feels _right_. It feels good. 

It doesn't feel like _Mikey's_ band, but the music is still there. Inside him.

*

Mikey is eating breakfast -- a sandwich Mrs. Steger left for him, his name written on a piece of masking tape on the tupperware carefully, "mikeY" -- when Tom sits down. Mikey's stomach plummets. He's being kicked out of the band before the tour starts. He did something wrong. He shouldn't have improv'd last night with Joy Division. Fuck.

"I want to take a picture of you and post it to the band Instagram," says Tom, and Mikey starts choking on a bite of pork.

"We're getting a lot of questions about you, so I kind of want to take away the mystery before it's, like, a big deal? But I know you don't want to be like, hey, I'm Mikeyway on tour with Empires. So do you want us to call you something else?"

"I don't know?" chokes out Mikey, grabbing for his water.

"Your middle name is James, right? We can just call you MJ. Hey, this is our touring bassist, his name is MJ and he's shy. Be nice to him if you see him on the street."

"What kind of picture would you take?"

"Maybe a picture of you eating the sandwich?"

"I'm kind of recognizable. My face."

"No one's recognized you yet. Just pull down your sleeves and put the sandwich in front of your face."

Mikey looks down at his hands. He would recognize them. Especially with the... his wedding ring. He doesn't even know why he's still wearing it.

"You've been taking pictures of me the whole time," he says, instead of really answering. "You didn't post any of those?"

"No. I take a lot of pictures I don't post anywhere. I like to record stuff."

"And all the pictures fans have taken at shows... I'm not in any of those?"

"Those pictures are usually of Sean and Max. There are a couple of pictures of you, but they're pretty blurry and you keep your head down." Tom puts his phone down on the table. "Do you _want_ me to tell people that Mikeyway from My Chem is our touring bassist?"

"No! No. No." Mikey rubs his thumb over his wedding ring, then twists it off his finger. He hasn't taken it off since he got it. He feels naked and weird and exposed and he has a lump in his throat.

He tucks the ring into his pocket, shakes his hair so it falls over his forehead and pulls his beanie down farther, then picks up the sandwich so it hides his face. 

"Take the picture," he says, and Tom does. 

There's a lot of fiddling, and when Tom turns it around, it's Instagram-filtered all to hell and back. It's in black and white, and there's a weird kind of blur, and Mikey's fingernails and the bread are the parts in focus. 

"I might sell it as a print," Tom says thoughtfully. "The bread looks kind of like the moon, don't you think?"

*

A blonde girl rushes them at the venue. Mikey sees her coming and panics, ducks behind the biggest person in the room -- Sean. But Sean is... Sean is Sean, and he doesn't realize Mikey is trying to hide. Instead, he catches Mikey easily and swings his arm around Mikey's shoulders. 

"That's Danielle," he says, grinning as the blonde girl hits Max hard and throws her arms around him.

" _Oh_ ," says Mikey. So that's the mysterious Danielle who thinks Max is cheating on her with Tom. She's pretty. She's older than he'd figured. She doesn't look like the kind of girl Mikey had pictured Max with -- Mikey had been picturing someone dark- haired, maybe a little chubby. A lot of tattoos. Big boobs.

And then Danielle switches from Max to Tom and there's _kissing_.

"Um, why is Danielle kissing _Tom_?" Mikey whispers to Sean.

"They do that," Sean tells him. "Friends with benefits, whatever they're calling themselves now. They've been together eleven years, can you imagine that? Eleven years. Eleven years ago, I was, like, going to be an actor. Or an English teacher. I couldn't decide. But they decided to be together for, like, forever."

"You would have been a great English teacher," says Mikey. He totally would have. Mr. Van Vleet, the hot English teacher who all the sixteen year olds flirt with, especially when he wears his shirt open enough at the throat to show chest hair. Mikey can picture it. Then Danielle is in front of him.

"Danielle," she says, sticking her hand out. "We met at Pete's wedding? You can call me Steegs. But _never_ Dani."

"Danielle or Steegs. Got it," says Mikey, nodding. Wow, if someone had just _said_ Danielle and Pete's friend Steegs were the same person, there would have been, like, a 90% less chance of him making an ass out of himself. "You look, um. Different."

"Yeah, I had different hair," she says, which he thinks is very kind. There's no way she doesn't know that he doesn't remember her. Her eyes are sharp and hard, like Alicia's. Mikey is pretty sure that if she keeps staring at him like this, he's going to puke all over her shoes.

Finally, she looks away. "Well, I'm here to support you assholes. Where's Mom and Dad?"

"They're coming later. Are you coming in the van?"

"But there's extra merch," says Sean softly, so softly Mikey thinks he might be the only one who hears. Sean's arm is still over his shoulders, so he puts his arm around Sean's back and squeezes.

"My days of van travel are over, baby brother," Danielle snaps. "Get a label and a bus and we'll talk. I'm here for this one show and then to visit Mom and Dad. And De'Mar. Where's De'Mar?"

"He's coming with Mom and Dad." Tom twines their fingers together. "Do you want to order in Chinese?"

She leans on him. "Pizza."

"Malnati's."

"Giordano's."

Tom grins at her, and then at everyone else. "Giordano's pizza," he says. "I think Walker is coming, too, so I'll get extra."

"If Jon complains about not ordering Malnati's, I'm going to punch him in the throat," says Danielle, and she keeps going about the pizza as she and Tom walk away.

"Intense," says Mikey.

"She's a really amazing older sister. She's fierce," says Max. "She played me my first Nirvana song."

"My older brother," starts Mikey, and when he stops, Sean's arm around him gets tighter. Max shakes his head.

"Smoke for you and me and hot tea with lemon for Sean," he says. "Come on."

*

Walker turns out to be _Jon_ Walker, another person Mikey met in a dream once. He comes with his wife (pretty, quiet), and Sean's girlfriend (pretty, loud). Mikey and Mike and Max end up fading into the background a little, and Mikey's okay with that. He's used to it. It's what he knows how to do. And the pizza is good, anyway.

There's a party after the show, and Mikey isn't sure how to say that he doesn't think he's _ready_. But he doesn't have to. Max shoves an amp into the trailer and says, "I think I just want to go home. You just want to go home?"

Mikey nods. "Yeah. That would be great."

"They're all going to be _trashed_ for the trip down to Kansas City tomorrow."

"Seven hours," Mikey says. "We can do that Nirvana retrospective."

"Fuck yes. Awesome." Max slams the doors of the trailer and locks it. "You wanna drive back to the house?"

Mikey does. And Max wasn't even lying to make him feel better -- he's almost asleep by the time they get back to the Stegers'. He leans on Mikey going up the stairs -- careful to step over Bella, always careful about Bella -- and knocks his forehead into Mikey's shoulder, mumbling, "Good night," when they get to the door of his room.

When he opens the door, Mikey gets a glimpse inside. Everything is dark blue and there are glow-in-the-dark constellations on his ceiling. There's a weird twist in Mikey's stomach. Maybe jealousy. He never had anything like that in his room growing up. He wouldn't even have known to want it.

He swallows his meds -- including the sleeping pill he usually skips -- with the last warm, flat bit of his bottle of Diet Coke from the venue and lies in the twin bed. It's made up with soft pink sheets that get magically changed and always smell sweet, like he's in a hotel or something. He stares at the ceiling of the guest room. Stares into the dark, anyway. 

There's a little soft spot in his brain that hurts when he presses on it, so he spends some time pushing by thinking about being a little kid. He composes text messages and emails to Gerard. The sleeping pill isn't like his old one, the super-powered trazodone. It's light, and... _fizzy_ , makes his fingers and toes tingle. He wants to write Gerard an email about _that_ , but knows all he'll get in response is a missive about feeling his feelings.

Gerard doesn't really know about feelings like these, Mikey is pretty sure, and oh. Oh, there it is, he poked right through the soft spot into gushing brains everywhere. Gerard doesn't know everything.

That thought does it every time. Mikey had actually forgotten that in his quest to not think about his life. How had he forgotten that it hurts to think Gerard doesn't know everything about him?

*

Mikey wakes up in the morning thinking that maybe he doesn't know everything about Gerard either. Maybe he doesn't know anything about anyone. He certainly didn't know a lot about himself.

He unplugs his phone from the charger and types in Gerard's cell number from memory. Kicking it old school. 

_Miss you, boo,_ he types in. _Love you. Call me sometime._

Send.

Then he tucks his phone into his pocket and goes to find coffee and Max, hopefully in that order.

  


**Author's Note:**

> [Tom and Danielle are "friends with benefits" in canon](http://instagram.com/p/N5WrF-wIrS/#) \-- or, at least, Danielle's Instagram (ilthem)
> 
> ["New Dawn Fades" by Joy Division](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsT_PvMR4j4) (YouTube)
> 
> ["Black No. 1" by Type O Negative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFwYJYl5GUQ) (YouTube)
> 
> [The "Millay-wah-kay" scene from _Wayne's World_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5FT3IGXtAk) (YouTube, starts at :42)
> 
>   
> 


End file.
